IT WON'T LAST

Wake up. The sun streams in through the open window but you have seen it too many times now. It has spoiled you. Groan, wish for another minute in bed. Struggle to keep your eyes open, though you want nothing more than to let the darkness take you away again. Was there a dream? Maybe there was, maybe there wasn’t. You can never tell anymore. Vague images of an arranged marriage arise. She is not beautiful. But she is determined. Almost metallic. Was she speaking in Korean? You don’t remember. Indulge your heavy eyes.

Wake up, for real this time, seven minutes later. Nothing’s changed. Sigh. Leave the bed. As your feet touch the floor, reach for your glasses. They’re on the table, slightly to the left of where you remember putting them. You’ve done it again. Consider talking to the school counselor. Decide against it. Look at your desk. Look at this room. It’s a mess. Resolve to clean it up. Hear footsteps outside. Some idiot is going for the middle shower. Don’t let him. Grab a towel and two-in-one shampoo/body wash. Drowsily stumble out into the hallway. You see the door to the third floor bathroom close shut. Follow it. Another resident of Taylor Hall stands there. He’s pissing. You hear no dibs. Walk into the middle shower. Your competition is too tired to notice. You have victory. Shower.

Go back to your room. Glance with some anxiety at your mounting pile of laundry and realize that needs to be done at some point. Just not now. You have four pairs of boxers left; you’ll last until Saturday, thank God. Throw on a pair; pull on a clean white shirt. Grab your toothbrush and comb. Walk back into the bathroom. Someone has turned on music, something vaguely EDM-y. Ask the room what the song is. Get a reply. Make a mental note. Brush your teeth, making sure to place special attention to the molars. Gargle. Spit. Steal a swig of someone’s mouthwash. Gargle. Spit. Look in the mirror. Wet your hair again, and start to comb it. A little to the side, but with some lift. Wonder how you managed to get so good at fixing your hair. Allow yourself to question your sexuality. Conclude that you are still straight. Are you sure? It would make getting into college a lot easier. Look into the mirror. Black hair, yellow-beige skin, small dark eyes, and a lack of any interesting sexuality are apparent. The worst combination. Sigh.

Open your closet. Find a shirt you haven’t worn for at least three days. Oxford button-down? Yellow polo? Yellow polo. And…navy shorts. Boat shoes. Casually glance at the schedule you have taped untidily on your wall. French, English, Physics, Calculus, and Studio Art. Pack accordingly. You have a free period after lunch; remember to do your Calculus homework then. Your stomach grumbles. It’s too late to grab breakfast. Promise yourself you will wake up earlier tomorrow and eat. Ignore the twinge of skeptical incredulity.

Let the day pass you by. Go from class to class, alternating between frantically jotting notes and carefully articulating thoughts regarding the human. Pay attention, but not too much attention: Remember that there is social value to be had in appearing to be effortlessly brilliant. Remember to be especially bright in English; Ms. Kay is writing one of your teacher recommendations. Walk with friends. Walk alone. Eat a hasty lunch with people you don’t really know. Finish the day.

Remember that the spring barbecue is today. Entertain the memory of an almost sarcastically cheerful email that reverberates within your head now: Remember that our annual Spring Festival is today! Get your grillin’ on! Go to drop off your bag in your room. Trade your polo for the t-shirt underneath; exchange your Sperry’s for flip-flops. Use your deodorant. Put on a cap. Your favorite, the white one. Before you know it, you’ve found and joined your friends. Laugh when one friend jokingly tells you she hates you; sarcastically mock the hockey players with another. As the main event begins to wind down, look up and discover that the girl you have a crush on is walking around by herself. Put on your winning smile and go to strike up a conversation with her. Ask her how she is. Make an excuse to put your arm around her shoulder. The excuse doesn't have to be clever. In fact, the dumber the better; you'll come off as a lovable goofball. Whisper something, anything, into her ear. If she laughs, laugh with her. If she smiles, take your hand off her shoulder and ask her a serious question. She’s close to you now. Look into her eyes and tell her that she is beautiful. Watch the smile bloom across her face. Your heart is beating like an African drum, but your face is relaxed. You are charming, kind, confident. She smiles and says she'll talk to you later; her ride is here. Tell her you can’t wait, and watch her walk away. Catch her taking a quick glance back at you. Wave again. Grin as she blushes. Finally, shake your head and rejoin your friends. They catcall, and you realize that they have been watching you the entire time. Allow yourself to feel embarrassed. Be happy. Laugh. Smile.

The sun streams through the window. Struggle to wake.